The Nightingale

In the kitchen, she found her potato soup simmering a bit too briskly, so she uncovered it and lowered the heat.

“Madame? Are you sanguine?”

She flinched at the sound of his voice. When had he come in here? She took a deep breath and patted her hair. It was not the word he meant. Really, his French was terrible.

“That smells delicious,” he said, coming up behind her.

She set the wooden spoon down on the rest beside the stove.

“May I see what you are making?”

“Of course,” she said, both of them pretending her wishes mattered. “It’s just potato soup.”

“My wife, alas, is not much of a cook.”

He was right beside her now, taking Antoine’s place, a hungry man peering down at a cooking dinner.

“You are married,” she said, reassured by it, although she couldn’t say why.

“And a baby soon to be born. We are planning to call him Wilhelm, although I will not be there when he is born, and of course, such decisions must inevitably be his mother’s.”

It was such a … human thing to say. She found herself turning slightly to look at him. He was her height, almost exactly, and it unnerved her; looking directly into his eyes made her feel vulnerable.

“God willing, we will all be home soon,” he said.

He wants this over, too, she thought with relief.

“It’s suppertime, Herr Captain. Will you be joining us?”

“It would be an honor, Madame. Although you will be pleased to hear that most evenings I will be working late and enjoying my supper with the officers. I shall also often be out on campaigns. You shall sometimes hardly notice my presence.”

Vianne left him in the kitchen and carried silverware into the dining room, where she almost ran into Isabelle.

“You shouldn’t be alone with him,” Isabelle hissed.

The captain came into the room. “You cannot think I would accept your hospitality and then do harm? Consider this night. I have brought you wine. A lovely Sancerre.”

“You brought us wine,” Isabelle said.

“As any good guest would,” he answered.

Vianne thought, oh, no, but there was nothing she could do to stop Isabelle from speaking.

“You know about Tours, Herr Captain?” Isabelle asked. “How your Stukas fired on innocent women and children who were fleeing for their lives and dropped bombs on us?”

“Us?” he said, his expression turning thoughtful.

“I was there. You see the marks on my face.”

“Ah,” he said. “That must have been most unpleasant.”

Isabelle went very still. The green of her eyes seemed to blaze against the red marks and bruises on her pale skin. “Unpleasant.”

“Think about Sophie,” Vianne reminded her evenly.

Isabelle gritted her teeth and then turned it into a fake smile. “Here, Captain Beck, let me show you to your seat.”

Vianne took her first decent breath in at least an hour. Then, slowly, she headed into the kitchen to dish up supper.